She shoved her hands into her pockets, closed her eyes and wished for just one minute that she could go back. That she would have asked more questions. That she would have picked up on the fact he’d never said he loved her even when Ashley made it a practice to tell him every day.
She’d just assumed he was a typical guy. Devon was reserved. He was somewhat forbidding. But she’d been wildly attracted to those qualities. Thought they were sexy. She’d been convinced that he quietly adored her and that his actions spoke louder than words.
She’d never considered even once that his actions were practiced, fake and manipulative.
Another shiver overtook her and she clamped her teeth together until pain shot through her head.
“Enough,” she said.
She had beat herself up for the last twenty-four hours, but it was Devon who was the jackass here. Not her. She’d done nothing wrong. Naiveté wasn’t a crime. Loving someone wasn’t a crime. She wouldn’t apologize for offering her love, trust and commitment to a man who didn’t deserve any of it.
He was wrong. She wasn’t.
The only thing she could control from here on out was what she did with the truth. It was no longer about what Devon wanted. If he could be a selfish jerk-wad, she could at least focus on what she wanted from this fiasco.
Then she laughed because what she wanted was the jerk-wad to love her. That might make her pathetic.
No, she couldn’t text Sylvia or Carly or Tabitha. Definitely not Pippa. Pippa would have her in front of a lawyer in a matter of hours and then she’d likely take out a hit on Devon.
Plus her friends would tell her she was being stupid for wanting to stay in the marriage. And she may well be an idiot, but she didn’t want people telling her that. She’d already made one mistake. It wouldn’t be the first or last and well, if it didn’t work out, at least then she could cite incompatibility and she wouldn’t have to tell everyone that the marriage had fallen apart before it had ever gotten off the ground.
She had just enough of an ego to want to save face. Who could blame her?
Feeling only marginally better about taking control over a perfectly out-of-control situation, she turned to retrace her steps. She was hungry but the thought of food made her faintly nauseous and her head was hurting so badly she wasn’t sure she could keep anything down anyway.
She was still a good distance from the steps leading to her and Devon’s suite when she saw him striding toward her on the sand.
Even now after so much time to think and decide how she wanted to proceed, she wasn’t prepared to face him. How could she just go on after finding out he was nothing like the man she’d thought she’d married? It was as if they were strangers. Intimate strangers who would now live together and pretend a loving existence to outsiders.
There weren’t manuals for this. Certainly no one had ever given her advice on such a matter. She wasn’t good at artifice. She hated lying. But it was what she’d asked him to do. It was what she herself had just decided to do with her friends and family. To the world.
“Where the hell have you been?” Devon demanded as he approached. “I was worried sick. I went in to check on you and you were gone.”
Before she could answer, he put his hand around her elbow and pulled her toward the glow cast from the torches that lined the beach.
She flinched away from the burst of light and he muttered something under his breath.
“Your headache isn’t any better, is it?”
She slowly shook her head.
“Damn it, Ash, why didn’t you come to me? Or take another pill. You should be in bed. For that matter you’ve eaten nothing in twenty-four hours. You’re as pale as death and your eyes are glazed with pain.”
She braced herself as he reached for her again, but his touch was in direct contrast to the tone of his voice. He was infinitely gentle as he pulled her against his side and began leading her back to the suite.
Unable to resist the urge, she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, trusting him to at least get her safely up the steps. His hold tightened around her and then to her shock, he simply swung her into his arms and began carrying her back.
“Put your head on my shoulder,” he said gruffly.
Relaxing against him, she did as he directed and for a few moments, basked in the tenderness of his hold.
Pretending was nice.
He carried her back into the suite, into the still-darkened bedroom, and carefully laid her on the bed.
“Would you be more comfortable out of your jeans?” he asked. But even as he asked, he was unfastening her fly and pulling the zipper down.
He efficiently pulled her pants down her legs, leaving her in her panties and T-shirt. She lay there, cheek resting on the firm, cool pillow, and willed the pain to go away. All of it.
